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Behind the Veil of Shadows
by kaeera
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Chapter Three: Of ghosts, spirits, and non-existent coffee cups
"Medicine! Ha!" Schnabelewopski continued his ramblings which had been going on for at least twenty minutes now. In those (painfully slow) minutes, he'd insulted the doctors ("don't know nothing about anything!"), John, the nurses ("what are women doing here, anyway"), the patients, the wall-colour, John, the world of today ("all rubbish, I tell you"), the ugly looking waste bins, John, International Rescue ("silliest name I ever heard") oh, and not to mention John.
The blonde knew it all by now – he was a weakling, a coward, and stupid because he wasn't able to read the old guy's thoughts. Oh, and don't forget annoying – because he kept asking questions – and a general pain in the ass.
At first, John had been offended; it wasn't particularly nice to be constantly insulted by the only person available to talk to. But then he'd realized that it wasn't to be taken seriously; Schnabelewopski was one of those old guys who weren't happy unless they had something to grumble about. After realizing that, it was actually quite funny to listen to him talk.
He hid another grin. "Medicine does help people, you know." John pointed out. "Without it, I'd already be dead."
"Ah! GnaGnaGna!" The old man waved him off, unaware of the amusement he was creating. John, who felt very much reminded of his brothers, contained his mirth and schooled his expression to one of careful indifference.
"Well, it's true. They're keeping my body alive, until I can find out how to return to it." He paused, thinking he'd try out his luck again. "Which, by the way, you could help me with. After all, you have been around for quite a while – I bet you meet a lot of people who are in the same situation. Can't you give me a couple of pointers? Or at least answer my questions?"
Schnabelewopksi snorted. "Answer your questions! You see, the young people of today, you don't want to do anything yourselves, that's the problem. Now, when I died, I had to find it out myself, and it was hard work – but you youngster you, you just expect me to tell you everything..."
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd had enough of the 'everything-was-better-when-I-was-young' speeches to last him a lifetime. "How can I still feel pain, even though I'm not in my body?" he asked, some part of his brain deciding that it was probably best just to ignore what the old-timer said.
"Hrmph." A sharp bang, as the walking-stick collided once again with the ground. "Gee, what do you think you are?"
John frowned. "A...ghost?"
Schnabelewopksi waggled his brows. "Oh, really? And what defines a ghost?"
"Uh..."
"You see, that's the problem. If you wanna understand what's going on with you, then you need to know what you are. And you're not a ghost – not yet. You're still alive. You're just not there."
John nodded slowly. This actually made sense. He wasn't a ghost yet, because ghosts were dead. He was more of a spirit, but even that didn't fit it correctly..."I'm still John," he began slowly. "But I'm not there. I've been...displaced."
"That's a suitable explanation, kiddo." Out of Schnabelewopksi's mouth, it sounded like the sweetest compliment on the planet. "You're an imprint – your mind – everything that makes you the person you are. All the things modern science can't explain, that's you, bundled up just like that. Now, why do you think can you feel pain?"
The blonde rubbed his chin, his mind trailing back to the various levels of feeling he had encountered. He had been able to touch his body, yet he could walk through walls. But he seemed to be able to control it – otherwise he would simply slide through the ground and keep falling until he had reached the centre of the planet.
"I feel pain...because I remember it?" John had to think of a familiar phenomenon – phantom pain. Maybe it was something like that. "Or maybe...maybe I feel pain because I imagine it? If I don't have a body, then...then something is keeping up my appearance. And that has to be myself, my subconscious! And of course my subconscious knows what pain feels like!"
Schnabelewopksi nodded grimly. "Took you a while to figure it out, eh?" Just out of pure spite, he hit John again with his stick. The blonde flinched and grimaced. Was there no way he could switch this pain thingie off?
"So that's why I had the coffee cup." The astronaut concluded, edging out of Schnabelewopski's reach.
"Exactly," was the gruff reply. "You can have anything that you can think of here. Just imagine it and it'll be there. Like a cigar, for example." The object appeared in his hand, already alight. Schnabelewokspi tossed it over his shoulder, where John noticed it vanished.
"Or a chocolate muffin." A delicious looking muffin popped in his hands, smelling alluringly. Schnabelewopksi took a bite, munched happily and then dropped it to the ground, where it scattered and then disappeared.
"Or a gorgeous redhead girl." Nothing happened. "Ah well," Schnabelewopksi said, disappointed "Nearly everything."
John bit back another grin. The guy was funny, he had to admit that much. "Well, why couldn't I have imagined a decent-tasting coffee, then?"
Schnabelewopksi sent him a scornful glance. "Because your imagination is crap? Or because you expect hospital coffee to be foul? Or have you ever had a good one?"
"Actually, no... and thank you for the compliment." John shook his head. "Okay, another question: if I'm just this...well, imprint, or spirit, or whatever you want to call it, how do I return to my body?"
"Don't know. I never tried."
The astronaut suppressed another sigh and growled. "Look. Can you see the chestnut-haired man over there? The one who's standing by himself, all slumped down?" He pointed at Virgil, who was indeed not far away from their current position, leaning against a wall as he waited for any news. "That's my brother." John explained. "One of four. They've been here and I saw them. At first I thought one of them was injured, but then I found out it was me. Now, can you see how depressed he looks?"
Schnabelewopski followed his direction and nodded, almost against his own will.
"Exactly." John's expression was firm. "They're going to be devastated if I die. I don't want to leave them like that. They need me – and I need them. I have a life. I love my life. I don't want my brothers to suffer any more than necessary because, hell, I know how hard it is to fear for someone's life! I've been there, and by God, I don't want to repeat it again. But they're going through that right now! Scott and Gordon are out there, saving lives while they're fearing for mine!"
His eyes flashed. John seldom got angry, and when he did, he looked positively dangerous. He didn't scream, didn't shout - he didn't need to. His voice carried a silent danger, a message that was not to be taken lightly.
"I want to return, Mr Schnabelewopksi," John said in a cold voice, "And you're not helping me. I don't mind feeling pain, I don't mind...whatever, I just want to go back."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Schnabelewopksi seemed to ponder this. "Did you think about the consequences, boy? Have you listened to a word I said? Did you consider the pain, the possible handicaps, long-term injuries, mental losses? What help will you be to your brothers if you're a breathing vegetable? Do you think they won't suffer then?"
John swallowed, his throat dry. He had tried to not think of these possibilities, but now they flashed through his mind with burning brightness. Him, stuck in a wheel-chair, or – even worse – his intellect gone, so that he was forced to spend the rest of his life looking at the stars without ever knowing them.
Yes, he was quite sure that there were some things worse than death.
But...
"It's just a possibility." His gaze was firm; his eyes didn't betray the doubts he was feeling. "I can't base my life on 'ifs' – I'd never get anywhere. How can I give up before I even attempted the fight? That would be a cowardly way out. No. No, I want to go back, and I'll do whatever is necessary. Never mind the consequences."
Schnabelewopksi clutched his walking stick harder, the knuckles turning white – and then threw his head back laughing. "What a nice little speech, kiddo!" he guffawed. "When I first saw you, I thought you were some wet noodle, but you do seem to have some spunk in you! Very well. I will tell you what I know, but it is not much."
John bristled at the 'wet noodle' comment, but managed to keep his temper in check. After all, he had gotten what he wanted.
Schnabelewopksi hammered with the walking stick on the ground, startling the blonde. "Sooner or later, you're going to feel the pull, and that's when you decide-"
"The pull?"
"Yea, smarty, the pull. Like, when your body reaches the critical point? You'll get pulled back, and the bond either snaps or you return to your body."
John blinked. "So...I don't have to do anything? I just have to wait? That seems a bit...odd."
Schnabelewopksi shrugged. "I dunno what else you could do. Trying to dive into your body? Willing yourself there? Naw. Doesn't work. You've been sent away from your body by your subconscious – and your subconscious will decide when to pull you back, usually when you reach a critical point. Then it's up to you to make the right decision."
"Have you met many people who...were in the same situation?"
"Oh yes!" The old man cackled. "Heaps of them! The funny thing is that half of them don't even remember that they wandered from their body when they wake up. Only the young kids do – their minds seem to be more receptive to strange ideas. But then nobody believes them anyway."
Relief flooded John. "So a lot of them do return to their bodies."
"Not really." Schnabelewopksi grinned. "I'd say about one third actually manage it – the rest simply vanish, while the body dies. Some stay around for quite a while, keeping me company."
Oh yes, that was something to look forward to, John reflected wryly; having the company of a grumpy old man while fearing for your life. "So what's the longest somebody stayed?"
"Hrm. Good question." A moment of silence stretched between them, the hospital's busy noise doing nothing to fill it. "The ones who are in a coma are always the worst. I had this one girl – she was about eighteen, I think – she stayed around for almost two months."
"Two months!" John's eyes boggled. He didn't want to think what it would do to his family if he stayed out of action for two months! Not to mention how his muscles would weaken! "And...did she wake up?"
Schnabelewopksi sent him a piercing gaze. "Yes, in fact she did...but the accident permanently blinded her. She wasn't very happy about that."
John recognized the underlying warning. He simply shrugged, as if to say 'I don't care'. It wasn't entirely true – he did care, he just didn't want the old cot to know. Being blind meant never seeing his precious stars again; but still, it was always better than being dead. And he had seen no damage on his face...so his eyes were probably alright.
The blonde vowed to himself that he'd find out more about his injuries at the next opportunity. He hated not knowing.
But...two months! That was the hell of a time! What was he supposed to do if his subconscious decided to let him wait that long? Was there no way to speed up the process? Maybe this girl had become blind because she had been looking at Schnabelewopksi for two months...it would be enough to scar anyone.
"Two months." He rubbed his head, which hadn't stopped aching. Why couldn't he stop his imagination from hurting him?
"Two months." Schnabelewopksi confirmed. And then slid forward to peer into an examination room where an almost naked woman lay on the bed, being bandaged by stressed looking nurse. There was a look of glee on his face, which caused John to groan. Great. Of all people to be stuck with, it had to be a grumpy old pervert.
"Hey, take a look at that, kid!"
John let his head fall in his hands. What had he done to deserve this?
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The sun had long slid down the horizon and the hospital was finally coming to a rest. With the roads cleared, most of the injured had been transported to other places, so that the hospital wasn't cramped any more, simply filled to its normal capacity.
John didn't know how many hours had passed – six? Eight? - but it had been quite a while, and without bodily needs like hunger, it was difficult to tell the time. Everything seemed to drag on slowly, and he had the slight suspicion that time didn't move in the same way for spirits as it did for the real world.
Several times, he had watched Virgil, until he couldn't bear it any longer. Somehow, sitting and looking at his brother while knowing that he couldn't hear him made it even worse.
And so he had wandered off, leaving Schnabelewopksi behind (the old guy was getting on his nerves with his ramblings), seeking solitude in some far-off corner of the hospital. And he watched.
It was amazing what you noticed when you were watching – really watching. So far, he had found about the relationship between a nurse and the janitor, the lack of toilet paper in the men's toilet, the stack of porn in the office of the head doctor, and the habit of several people to talk to themselves. The last one was actually quite funny; John knew (from experience) that people only talked to themselves when nobody was around. Without them knowing that he was listening, he got amazing tidbits of self-directed conversations...
It was enough to write a book about, John reflected. Maybe he'd do that once he was back – the time in the hospital was bound to be boring. But how could you write about something like that? Nobody would believe him, not even his family.
And he probably wouldn't even remember it. John's brow furrowed. It seemed to be a bit of a waste – why bother with this out-of-body crap when you couldn't even remember it afterwards?
The picture of his copper-haired brother flashed into his mind. Gordon had been in a coma for a long time, while the rest of the family had feared for his life. Now that John was in the same position, he couldn't help but wonder – had his younger brother gone through an experience similar to his? Had he left his body and wandered the hospital?
He'd never mentioned it, but then Gordon still found it difficult to discuss that episode in his life. After his long stay in the hospital and the slow process of recovering, Gordon had thrown himself back into life with full force, leaving all the bad things behind him. But the whole family knew that sometimes he had nightmares. Whenever Gordon was up early in the morning, nursing some coffee, it was a clear sign that his sleep had been troubled.
John tried to imagine his brother walking around the hospital, listening to their conversations and trying to find a way back to his body.
Maybe it was better that he didn't remember. John had certainly talked a lot of bullshit in the many hours of lonely vigil beside Gordon. He had rambled on about all sorts of things, spoken freely of his fears, and he knew that the rest of the family had done the same.
But how had it been for Gordon?
None of them had ever dared to ask. It was a taboo topic. The case was closed, the past stayed the past, and they were by nature a family that looked ahead instead of looking back.
Would he be the same?
John had to think of his own body. With a sudden jolt, he realised that he had explored every part of the hospital, but hadn't been back in his own room ever since the first time. Coward, he scolded himself, because the mere idea was creepy enough. It was his own body, dammit, and one wasn't supposed to look at it from far-away.
John set his jaw and turned hot on his heels. If Mr Schnabelewopksi had been right, then it could take ages for him to return. Maybe there was some way to speed up the process – or maybe he needed to make sure that he was still alive, not some ghost like the old guy.
How had it gotten that far? Yesterday he had been looking forward to his stay on the island, the relaxing days on the beach, familiar banter with his brothers. Now the only thing he was looking forward to was either death or a very prolonged hospital stay.
It wasn't fair.
But then again, life never was. It certainly hadn't been fair on Gordon when he'd had his accident. Or on the whole family, when Lucille Tracy had died.
"Complaining won't help you, John Tracy." he snorted and then winced. This talking-to-himself thing was getting routine – not good. Not at all.
His stride determined, the blonde made his way to his own room. He slid through the wall without any resistance and felt a cold shiver when he saw himself lying on the bed. Pale, unmoving, deadly white. The beeping of the machine clashed with the soft hissing sounds of the breathing apparatus. John despised the fact that he had to rely on a machine to keep him alive. Couldn't he breathe on his own?
Then his gaze wandered further and he discovered the second figure in the room. To his surprise, it wasn't Virgil, but Scott. When had he returned? And why hadn't he noticed him? Shouldn't he be aware of it when somebody was in the same room as him?
Slightly disconcerted, John stepped closer, aware of the closed-off look on Scott's face. It was dark outside, and only then the astronaut realized that a lot of time must have passed. The rescue was probably all wrapped up, the vehicles tucked safely away, and here stood Scott his silent vigil over his bedside.
"Hi Scott," John whispered. "I know you can't hear me, but thanks anyway. For keeping me company, I mean."
His brother was sitting on one of those hospital chairs – made out of plastic and designed to be uncomfortable – and staring at the silent body. John's gaze followed his.
I hope I normally don't look like that.
To say that he was pale would have been an understatement. The white gauze wrapped around his head barely differed from the pallor of his skin; only the dark blood stains stood out sharply. His jaw was slack, the tube firmly attached to it, keeping him breathing, keeping him alive. His chest was bandaged, as well as his hands - he dimly remembered digging, his nails breaking. The rest of his body was covered by a white sheet, but there was no doubt that the injuries were severe.
Swallowing hard, John stepped closer to have a look at the chart hanging beside his bed; the one where his injuries were described in detail. The list was far too long for his taste.
Broken ribs. Punctured lung. A developing infection that had to be fought using antibiotics. Plus the usual stuff. Abrasions. Surface wounds. Bruises. A sprained wrist. Hairline fracture in the fibula.
The words 'craniocerebral injury' stood written at the very top of the list, and under it, in a messy scrawl that was hard to identify - MRI Scan advised – regular checks needed'.
John suspected that with all the mess going on, they hadn't been able to treat him as they would have liked. But he didn't like it. It meant that something was going on with his brain, and since that was the part of his body he valued the most, he felt quite anxious.
Schnabelewopksi's warnings flashed through his mind. John saw himself for a moment as a drooling imbecile, his wits and intelligence gone from his body, unable to even form a coherent sentence, while his brothers sent him pitiful looks.
He shuddered. Sometimes it was scary to have a vivid imagination.
Without his brains, he would be useless to his family. A burden. A Tracy who wasn't strong - that was unheard of.
I'd rather be dead.
"I wonder what you're thinking." The voice startled John, as he'd been on the verge of sinking onto a full-blown depression.
While
he had been brooding, Scott had scoped up his hand and held it
tightly between his roughened fingers. "Half the
time I never know what goes through that blonde head of
yours."
John held his breath. It seemed like an awful private moment, and he contemplated leaving the room - he felt like an intruder. But in the end, curiosity won, and the need to be with someone he knew; and besides, Scott was talking to John. He just didn't know that his brother could hear him.
Despite everything else, it was interesting to watch. Scott wasn't the talkative type – every time a conversation steered in an emotional direction, he got nervous and uncomfortable. And so the tall man fidgeted on his chair, bit his lips and searched for the right words.
John would have laughed if the situation hadn't been so damn sad.
"Are you dreaming?" Scott wondered aloud.
"I wish it was that easy," was John's reply.
"I wish you would wake up, John." The word's were barely audible. "You're starting to worry me. Yeah, yeah – I know. I always worry too much, you told me so yourself numerous times." Scott gave a dry laugh. "But I reckon my worry is justified. That building really did a number on you, John. When they told me that you had stopped breathing..."
His voice trailed off. "That was one of the worst moments in my life. I thought you had died, and I...I couldn't bear that."
"Oh Scott..." John's heart went out to the distressed man. He knew what it was like to worry – he did it all the time when he was on Thunderbird Five. It must be ten times worse for Scott – he always found a way to blame himself, and the inactivity of waiting drove him crazy.
"The doctors are worried about your brain," the dark-haired man continued. "You took a bad blow to your head. It scares me. You're one of the smartest people I know, Johnny - Brains included. Your brain always seems to be a step ahead the rest of us. I'm good when it comes to quick decisions, but you're the really smart one." A smile played around Scott's lips. "I remember when we were kids – you were always off reading a book, while we stormed the house and drove Grandma crazy. Dad joked once that you were the easiest kid – he just had to give you a couple of books and you were happy."
John grimaced. "Yeah, I know – good, ol' boring John." He had always been a bit of a loner, which was cause of many jokes from his more extrovert brothers.
"But then again, you only had to know the right tricks to calm everyone down," Scott's smile widened. "With Virgil, it was music – and you could happily throw Gordon in a pool and he would stay there for hours, never making a sound. Even Alan had his soft spot – race cars – I don't know what mine was, though. But yours were books."
The blonde had to grin as well when the familiar scenes flashed into his mind. Oh, I know your weakness, Scott. You did have one. But you never realized it.
"Look at me, I'm rambling." Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "Talking to you as if you could hear me - listen to me the way you always do."
I am listening, Scott.
"You know, that's the great thing about you. You always listen. I don't know how you do it, but...I can always talk to you, and I know the others feel the same. You don't even say much, it's just how you listen...must be a gift." Scott fell silent, probably remembering the numerous times John had forced him to talk after a rescue. Or maybe forced was the wrong word – the blonde would just look at him and then Scott was spilling his guts.
Scott paused, his voice weary. "You know that you can always tell me anything? Yet I never know what goes through your head. You're an enigma. It's pretty easy to figure out Alan – a lot more tough when it comes to Gordon, but just because he's so sneaky – but you and Virgil, you can be difficult. There were times when I wondered...who listens to the listener?"
John tilted his head, surprised at the sudden insight coming from his usually so stoic brother. He never went to other people with his problems – must be habit, he guessed – but he didn't mind, because it was just his way of dealing with things.
"God, I really hope that the damage on your brain...that it isn't serious..." Scott changed the topic, apparently uncomfortable with the amount of feelings he had just put into his words. "I think that would be the worst for you, wouldn't it?"
Definitely. His brother sure knew him well.
"Why won't you wake up?" There was it again, the sentence he had asked so many times while Gordon had been unconscious. In the many nights he had spent there, he had always wondered – what was going through Gordon's mind? Why wasn't he returning? Had he found a better place, was he too tired, in too much pain? Or was he fighting, struggling, against the weakness of his own body? And now it was him whom this sentence was directed at; it was John who lay there pale and unresponsive, and even though he was the one, he still didn't fully understand as for why he wasn't waking up.
"Never give up, John, because there's always a chance. But if you give up, this chance will be lost. It's easy to give up – surviving is the hard part." Scott paused. "We need you to come back to us, Johnny.", he continued, voice thick. "Damn, I...I order you to come back! You are a valuable member of International Rescue, you can't just not come back! We need you! I need you!"
The last three words were barked in a gruff tone, but John still noticed the underlying affection and concern.
Oh Scott, I'm so sorry. His mind circled back to happier times, the ones they had remembered earlier.
John smiled. You do have a soft spot, Scott Tracy. Two of them, actually. The first is flying – and the second is us – your brothers.
To be continued...
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Bad John, bad. Eavesdropping like that :) Though I have to admit that I would do the same. Imagine the gossip!
I often wondered how the injured party would feel if they knew how much worry they're causing. Well, John has just found out.
